Myogi's Midnight Tsunami
by BaneOfPain
Summary: An American college student, 19 years of age, moves to the Gunma Prefecture in Japan. There, he meets Takeshi Nakazato, his mentor. But, when he encounters a freaky Toyota Corolla and challenges its driver to a race, does he bite off more than he can chew?
1. Prologue

_There she was, the love of my life. From her big, aggressive body, to her late 60s class. Actually, I should start from the beginning..._

My name is Ryker Pierce. I'm 19, and the "love of my life" that I was referring to is a little project of mine.

My father was a total deadbeat. But he was a deadbeat with rich, loving parents, and in 1968, said parents bought him a brand new Torino red Dodge Charger, fresh off the production line, with a 318 package. In 1972, however, the braindead brat found water in the radiator. Ridiculous! How DARE this water cool flood his engine! Thankfully, he fixed it, and drained the liquid from the radiator. Not much later, the motor blew up. Unbelievable, I know. His father asked him what happened and he claimed the engine was fine before, and that it blew without warning. No, his physical input on a perfectly okay powertrain could NOT have messed it up, surely not. The engine just died. No one's fault. He begged Papa Pierce to swap the motor but his father wouldn't agree to it. Eventually though, after jumping up and down and begging like a five-year-old, my father got his wish. His beautifully mistreated '68 got its powertrain swap.

One day, however, good ol' Martin Pierce left home. He was 22. He left because his folks grounded him from his Mopar for showing up to a party that he was told not to go to. So he took off in his filth-covered Charger, which he never bothered to clean. The funny thing about it is that even though he stole a car from his parents (It was kinda stealing, because his parents, whom he lived under the same roof of, gave him strict orders not to touch the car) he didn't steal a dime from his mother and father. His RICH mother and father, I might add. He had a nickel in his pocket, cruising down the streets in his Charger, and never looked back.

He met my mother in 1975. You know how the stories always go: empty promises, fake love, blah, blah, blah. Long story short: They got married in 1976... unfortunately. In '77, I became a thing, and his Charger sat in a garage for fifteen years. Why? Well, my mother, Amy (Anderson) Pierce, had talked him into buying an AMC Pacer station wagon: effectively the minivan of the 70s.

When I was 15, after the long foreseen divorce of my parents, my father forgot to take the Charger from the garage, and my mom and I kept the house. My mother told me I couldn't touch it and that she would put it up for sale. But I made a deal with her: If I couldn't get it running, driving, and looking decent before I was 20, we would sell it. If not, I would get to keep it. Did I mention that the motor that was swapped into the '68 was a 440 Magnum out of a '71 Challenger? Because it is. The 440 was supposedly ruined when they found the Challenger in the junkyard but all it needed was a new battery, a new fuel pump, and some starter fluid. You know, for the Golden Age of muscle cars, you would think the people around in the 60s and 70s would know things about the muscle cars they drove everywhere but apparently a good few didn't.

I quickly found out my dad treated his cars the same way as his kids: crap. The Charger had numerous issues. For one, the grille was nowhere in sight. For another, the motor didn't run after years of sitting idle. Since a '68 Charger grille is so hard to find in mint condition, I actually cut steel mesh to the appropriate dimensions to replace the grille. Even though some would argue that the hideaway lights on the Gen 2 B-body Chargers are what makes them what they are, I didn't have the means of obtaining any. However, in my opinion, the headlamps I'd placed behind the grille, which shine through it and have their light seperated on account of the mesh, grant it a real mean look.

Life went on like that for a while: fix this, fix that, replace that, paint this, custom build that... For that long time I was building the Charger, I had to drive my mother's '85 Charger to work. Yeah. I drove that dinky front-wheel-drive disgrace to the Mopar name to work and back, everyday, and used every paycheck I got on my precious, actually worth while Dodge.

By the time I was 18, The whole car was fully restored, save the paintwork. It ran and drove perfectly, and was actually decently reliable. As for the paint, I finished it just before my 19th birthday, and my present to myself: a completed project car. Well, a project car is never complete really, but it was... uhh... "done" I gue- I don't know. As for the color combo, it was satin midnight black with a turquoise R/T strip wrapping around the tail end. I did the black on my own, but didn't trust myself for the stripe and had that done at a paint shop.

One day, as I was admiring it, my mother burst into the two car garage, excited, and handed me a small slip of paper: a ticket.


	2. Don't Let the Sharks Eat Me!

I looked out the window, _Do I know how to use the life vest? Let me check. Where_ is _the life vest? Can I swim long enough to survive out there? Are there sharks down there? These are warm waters, there are definitely sharks. I'm dead. Wait, what am I saying? I gotta get a hold of myself..._ _ **I don't wanna die! I'm only just getting a college education!**_

"Can I get you anything?" The female voice pulled me from my morbid thoughts, and I looked up to find an attendant.

"Uh, yeah. Pepsi is fine," was my answer.

"Great, I'll be back with that shortly," She left to retrieve my drink.

I should probably explain what is going on. So, these Japanese aristocrats, the Takahashi family, hosted a competition for an American to fly over to Japan and get a college degree in, well, anything they wanted really. I chose the Gunma University, and was to major in engineering. my mother had shown me this and told me that "it would be fun" so we gave it a whirl. For the six months it took for them to decide a winner, my mother, no joke, made me learn Japanese. I told her she was crazy to think we would win but she had one of her gut feelings and there was no stopping her. Ugh, why do mothers always have to be right? I told her one day she might end up being wrong about something; she waved me off jokingly but I'm starting to think she ACTUALLY knows something - like she has an innate ability to say anything she wants and it'll just happen. Anyway, they even offered to have any car you wanted shipped over here, so long as it had plates and you were in possession of the vehicle's title. If it's hard to tell (it shouldn't be) I had my '68 sent here.

The main reason I'm majoring in engineering is because, even though I pride myself on having put the Charger back together, I still don't fully understand exactly what makes cars do what the do. Engineering in general might not necessarily help me learn about cars in specific, but it will help me to understand what I'm reading about as I study more about automobiles. Not to mention, being able to write down "Bachelor's Degree in Engineering" on a job application for an automotive company could get me noticed; possibly even hired.

I heard a loud "DING" followed by some Japanese - the captain told us we were approaching the airport and to fasten our seat belts. Thankfully, I would not be getting eaten by sharks today.

I stepped into the airport, where I was directed to my Charger. The moment I turned the key, I couldn't help but shiver as I heard the deep, throaty growl of the 440 Magnum. I pulled the car out of the airport property and onto the tight, Japanese streets. She was, unsurprisingly, quite the head-turner; these people didn't see these machines to very often, and I was more than happy to give them a little taste of the Star-Spangled 1960s.

Now, I had arrived about a week before my classes start, so I had some time on my hands; I figured I'd take a drive onto one of the many scenic, forested mountains here in the Gunma Prefecture. I reached the top of the mountain. Mt. Haruna? No. Where did I get "Haruna" from? Akina! That was it. As luck would have it, there was a hotel at its peak. Since I wouldn't be moving into my dorm until next Saturday, I thought here would be a lovely place to stay until then.

As soon as I pulled into the parking lot, three cars, going WAY faster than the speed limit, pulled up, braked hard, and pulled into the lot as well,

" _Akina Speed Stars,"_ I read aloud.

For some reason, the name of their team, or gang, or whatever they were, was written in English on the side of all their cars. The two that caught my eye specifically were a Silvia S13 and a Nissan 180SX. Not wanting to get caught in the middle of a turf war, I slipped inside the hotel. My American brick-on-wheels, however, was my undoing.

Barely having a choice, they noticed my Charger and stalked over to it for a good examination. I really wished I had my SIG P365 on me, but unfortunately, the only form of defense I could find that was legal to carry in Japan was a pair of brass knuckles – which I barely know how to use.

None of them seemed to keen on hurting my car, merely admiring it. They ambled into the hotel, which was almost empty save the clerk and myself, and asked if I owned the machine they'd just finished inspecting. Of course, I told them I did and offered to pop the hood. The _Speed Stars_ seemed more than happy to have a look at whatever made my Mopar move. After getting an eyeful, one held out his hand, and told me his name,

"Koichiro, Iketani" I remembered that, in Japan, people introduce themselves stating their last names first.

"Pierce, Ryker," I shook his hand.

"Y'know," he started, "I'd bet good yen that this would do serious work on the downhill."

"The downhill?" I had no idea what he was talking about.

"A downhill _race..._ On the mountain," he clarified.

"That can't be legal though, right?"

"Well, you do it at 11:30 at night and nobody really cares."

"What about law enforcement?" I asked.

"They don't usually start their rounds till about 5:30," He then added, "and we have people stationed all over, who'll radio if they see traffic."

I thought over that for a moment, then asked,

"Why do you think this would do so well? I mean, this thing would go at a snail's pace down half of these tight hairpins."

"But when drifting," He began, "This gigantic piece of machinery would block the whole road, forcing your opponent to slow down as well."

"But I can't-"

"Then, its excessive power would allow you to pull out of the corner and away from your opponent."

"Um, Iket-"

"Not to mention, on the downhill, its weight would be an ally in this scenario - allowing gravity to pull your car down the mountain, increasing your lead-"

" **Can it, skid-boy!** " This exclamation was followed by, well, nothing, which was good; that would be why I said it.

"Um, I..." I didn't let him finish that thought.

"I can't drift," I informed him in a much calmer tone, having now gotten my point across, "So none of that was necessarily helpful."

"Well sure you can, all it takes is a little practice," He told me.

"That's the problem, I don't trust myself to take my pride and joy down these mountains anywhere over the speed limit. I restore the classics, I don't race them," Even as I said it, I felt that, one way or another, I'd end up doing just that.

"Why not do both?" Iketani asked me.

"If I wreck this car, I'll never forgive myself."

"Oh. Come. On! That goes for any petrolhead and his project car, but we'll all push our machines one day," I didn't want to admit it, but I knew he was right.

"That's for some people, but not me," I was just spouting crap at this point.

"Suit yourself," He walked to his S13, opened the door, and looked back at me one more time, "But you'll come to realize that I'm right eventually," With that, he climbed into his Silvia and pulled out of the lot, followed by the rest of the _Akina Speed Stars_

 _"You'll come to realize that I'm right eventually,"_ Little did he know, I already had.


	3. Shaddered Pride

I'd started showing up to racing events after my classes and trying to get acquainted with the touge scene around here. I was standing at the peak of Mt. Myogi. In front of me were the two cars about to duke it out on the downhill, a brown 1990 Nissan 300ZX with a carbon fiber hood, and a blue '97 Celica GT-4. The 300 lost in the end and its driver was... upset... to say the least. It almost ended in a fist-fight but I decided enough was enough. I stepped between the two and told them to stop acting like children, to which the 300ZX driver responded to with,

"This doesn't concern you, _American."_

"First of all, I don't appreciate your tone," I think he may have been intimidated by my 6'4 frame, "especially not when you're referring to my home country," He took a step back, probably remembering that Americans are very defensive of their stomping grounds, "Second of all, none of us came here to watch two grown men argue like five-year-olds over who won a race. He won - you lost. Accept it."

"You saying you could do any better? Huh? You and your dog-pace, forty-year-old pile of-"

"You. Better. Believe... I could beat your 220 horsepower eyesore into the pavement," I said it softly, but with a look in my eyes that made it clear that I wasn't pleased with the way he spoke of my car. His eyes darted about somewhat before focusing back on me,

"Okay. I see how it is. You know what? I bet ￥16,000 that your 4,000 pound boat can't outrun my 300ZX. How about that?"

"Easy now, she's a little self-conscious about her weight," I'm sorry, I couldn't resist.

"You think you're funny, don't you?" Little did he know, Hawkeye Pierce from M*A*S*H was my mentor.

"Oh, if you think that's funny, just you wait. You'll go home tonight and look in this reflective-glass-thing - you'll really know what humor is then." I was rewarded with a chuckle from the crowd.

He was getting angry - his beat-red face said it all for him. Before he could say anything to me that I'd make him regret, a man with black hair, like mine, and brown eyes came up to us,

"You two said your betting ￥16,000, place it here," He held out his hand, "Now, keep in mind that my team, the _Myogi Night Kids_ , consider ourselves the fastest on this mountain; And we don't want anybody fighting over this money. You lose the race, you lose the money. You got one shot, no "ands" "ifs" or "buts" about it. That clear?"

'Yeah, you hear that shortstuff? When you lose don't come crying to me," I tried to sound confident, and for the most part succeeded, but I had no idea how this was going to go down.

The 300 guy and myself put our bets in his hand, nodded to him, and went to our cars. Before getting in, however, he held out his hand to me and said,

"I'm Chiaki, Jun."

"Pierce, Ryker," I shook his hand and went to my Charger, as did he to his ZX.

So, first race in... well ever, actually. I was going down a tight, winding mountain I had no knowledge of in a Charger I've never taken above 80 miles an hour. And of course, my first instinct was to bet $150. Great.

The one who volunteered to count us down stood in front of our cars and raised his hand,

"Juu... Kyuu... Hachi... Shichi... Roku... Go... Yon... San... Ni... Ichi... GO!" His hand came down, as did my right foot, and we were off.

Naturally, I pulled out ahead at the start. However, as we came up to the first corner, I realized something: this was a bad idea. I had no knowledge of how to run this course. Or any course, really. I braked hard, downshifted as I realized my RPMs were to low, and went about 60% on the throttle through the bend. Having not taken a proper line, I was easily passed by the 300 from the inside. All through the pass, corner after corner, the ZX and its arrogant driver widened the gap. I could only keep up because of the straights. But even then, touge battles were a matter of cornering - winning by passing him on the straightaways would be a hollow victory.

And would you believe it, I lost.

I thrust the money into his hands, and he received it with,

"How did all your crap-talk treat you?"

It was official, I hated him. my college dormitory was on the other side of Myogi, so I had to drive back to the up of the mountain. I noticed the spectators on the sidelines jeering at me; pointing and shouting insults. I was now the laughing stock of Mt. Myogi, and possibly even all of Gunma. When I reached the mountain's peak, I was confronted by the leader of the _Night Kids_ , someone actually respected around here,

"Listen, I see real potential in you. You may be going at it like a Hachi-Go right now, but when I'm through with you, you'll be competing with Hachi-Rokus."

"So, you're basically saying you can train me to be sub-par?"

"Listen pal, I know that may not sound like much, but you haven't met some of the Eight-Sixes around here. They. Are. _Fast."_

"Wait, you, the leader of one of the most respected teams in Gunma, are going to train me, the guy who just lost to a guy with a mouth bigger than his powertrain?"

"You better believe I am. If I know classic car owners, they don't part with their cars lightly."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning: if you aren't going to part with a potentially monstrous downhill machine like that, you're at least going to put it to good use. That's a performance car! Let it throw its tail around!"

"Fair enough. When do I start?"

He handed me a slip of paper, "That's my number, call me when your ready to start your training,"

"Alright then, I'll do that."

"Oh, I almost forgot, my name is Nakazato, Takeshi," He held out his hand.

"Pierce, Ryker," I shook it.

This was the beginning. Hold fast, ladies and gentlemen, the story's finally getting to the good part:

My rise to the top.


	4. AN Important

**_So, my original plan was to juggle this story and type the chapters on quotev and copy/paste them here but that ended up being annoying and time consuming and I don't have much time at the moment. So, I will no longer be updating this story on . Go to quotev if you want to keep reading._**


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